


loaded

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: The morning after the infamous Tom Snyder interview, Ace and Paul discuss superheroes, girls, and precisely nothing of importance.





	loaded

“Hey,” Ace says, and as usual, his breath smells like a mix of champagne and last night’s vomit. “Hey,” he says again, and you’re roused, vaguely, pulling yourself off the dirty mattress. 

“Did you mean it? What you said during that interview?”

“Did you mean it?” you’re tempted to throw back in his face, but you’re not even sure he’ll remember half of what he even said on the show. The main things you’re remembering from it right now are Tom laughing his head off and Gene shooting daggers at everyone in eyeshot.

“Mean what?” you manage after a bit.

“The shit about wanting to be a superhero.”

“Oh. Yeah.” There’s a toothbrush, your toothbrush somewhere in this suite with the KISS logo emblemized on the side, another merchandising prototype you can’t even blame on Gene. Probably the girl from the other night stole it. Ought to be unreal, running off with someone else’s spit. Ought to be unreal, giving that much of a fuck about a guy without even seeing his face. “Yeah, I did.”

“All of it? Even the wind in your hair?” Ace looks somewhere between incredulous and deeply amused. That awful laugh has to be seconds away, but it doesn’t come. Ace slides his hand up his forehead, taking a whole streak of greasepaint with him as he pushes back his bangs in perfect imitation. “Oh, _Starchiiiiild_ , you saved me! However can I thank you?”

“Maybe by shutting up.”

“C’mon. They were gonna eat me alive! If you hadn’t rescued me—my innocence, man, they would’ve fucked me six ways from Sunday. And then cut off my hair as souvenirs.” And there’s the laugh, high pitched and weirdly infectious. “Which is worse, huh?”

“Eh, forget about it. You were so drunk you couldn’t have gotten it up for them anyway.” You’re finally starting to wake up enough to keep up. Enough to stumble over to the bathroom and grab a washcloth, running the tap over it. Ace is still calling out from the bedroom.

“Poor Paulie, actually thinking I’ve ever fucked sober.”

You’re tempted to say something. Almost tempted to ask. Instead you turn off the tap as soon as the washcloth’s halfway damp and double back into the room with a request, tossing the towel at him.

“Just get that crap off your face or you’re gonna be drawing those stars around a bunch of zits.”

“You’re such a chick.” But he starts rubbing it off anyway, what’s left of the silver around his eyes and the white everywhere else. His mouth just gets a bare swipe, the lipstick looking like a dirty bruise. He looks down at the makeup on the towel and snorts. “All the Beatles had to do was grow their hair out. Who’s the putzes here?”

“They are. They broke up.”

Ace snickers.

“We might, too.” He throws the towel back and hits the side of the TV instead before landing on the floor. You don’t bother picking it up. “Hey, hey, Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“I cut into your orgy last night?”

“I didn’t have one.”

“’Cause you were making sure I wasn’t gonna die of alcohol poisoning. Sweet. That mean you haven’t made it with a girl in here yet?”

“Yeah?”  
“Then let’s christen this hotel room.” And a giggle. “Room uh—five-oh-five in the hotel—aw, screw the hotel, November the first, 1979, and Paul Stanley hasn’t gotten laid here _yet_.”

“If you wanna help me fix that you could always leave—"

“I’m gonna help you fix it.”

Ace’s fumbling over. You did get him out of his boots before he passed out last night, and out of the wristcuffs he spent the show trying to attach to that teddy bear, but other than that, he still has every inch of the Spaceman gear on. It’s unsettling. Like one of those wooden cutouts people take pictures at carnivals with, a body with the wrong head attached. 

“Ace—”

Then his mouth’s on yours.

He tastes as terrible as he smells, predictably. Just about slobbering. With every move he seems like he’s less likely to manage to zero in on your lips, all the sadder when they’re not even a moving target. But there’s a strange earnestness there, too. Like he actively wants something. Like he might actually know what he’s doing. Which is stupid. Ace’s braincells haven’t been synced to anything but his Les Paul in at least three years.

“Oh, come off it, you’re still loaded.” It takes you awhile to say it, and a little longer to actually nudge him backwards. Any minute now and Ace’ll start giggling again and wander off like a toddler. Doesn’t even have his room key. God knows how many people the band’ll have to pay off to confiscate all the cameras if Ace decides to leave the hotel still in costume.

“I’m not. C’mon…”

He’s tugging at your pants as though he can’t figure out where the zipper is, and it’s about that time that you smack his hand away. Ace barely blinks in return.

“Just sober up, will you? Here—” and you lean over to yank open the bedside table drawer, pulling out a pair of sunglasses—“here, go up to the lobby and ask for another room key. I’m not babysitting you anymore today.”

“You’re real shitty at it, Paul.”

“I know.”


End file.
